What the Heart Sees
by GoGirl212
Summary: Sometimes the heart sees what is invisible to the eye. - H. Jackson Brown, Jr. An entry to the Fete des Mousquetaires October Competition: Monsters and Manes.
1. Morning

_A/N: Got the inspiration for this one from a post in the Musketeers Story Idea Forum. It came along just in time for our Halloween writing challenge._ _An entry to the Fete des Mousquetaires October Competition: Monsters and Manes._ _My thanks to Issai for smoothing out the rough edges and being such a supportive reader. The mistakes are all mine, the characters, unfortunately, are not._

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The morning dawned cold, icy fingers of an early winter gripping them as they slept. A rain of colored leaves scattered over their blankets as the copse of trees they sheltered in gave up the last of their fiery bounty to the unrelenting wind pushing through the branches. Fall was coming to an end.

Athos encouraged their meager campfire back to life and looked at his men, still huddled under thin blankets but already stirring as the morning became damp and uncomfortable. They had all spent a restless night, sleep coming intermittently. Their injuries coupled with the cold ground kept any of them from getting true rest. When Porthos had woken him for the final watch, it had been a relief to be pulled out of his fitful slumber, plagued as it was with unsettling dreams of cold fire and jasmine perfume. Athos wished yet again for a bottle of wine, as much to warm his body as to fortify his soul, but the last of the wine had been used on the wounds yesterday.

The fire crackled, reminding Athos he should set some water to warm in case they needed it to redress any of their injuries. He pushed himself up stiffly, favoring his left leg where he'd taken a slice across the back of his thigh. Had it been deeper, it would have immobilized him, but as luck would have it, it was a glancing blow and only caused a long, shallow cut. It was stitched, but riding would aggravate it immensely. He was not relishing the journey back to Paris, but for the others, it would be worse.

Athos fished a large copper cup from his saddlebags and a water skin and moved clumsily back to the campfire. He eased himself down and filled the cup, setting it to the edge of the coals. He only had just gotten himself positioned comfortably when soft sounds of distress pulled his attention to the man curled on his side a few feet away. Aramis moaned softly again and seemed to struggle within the blanket cocooning him. Athos pushed himself awkwardly to his feet and limped to his comrade's side. Unable to squat, he rather unceremoniously lowered himself to sit with a thump beside the agitated musketeer.

"Aramis," he called softly, placing a hand to the man's shoulder and giving him a gentle shake, "Aramis, wake up. You're dreaming." The man's struggles eased as the voice and touch of a friend pulled him quickly toward wakefulness. Aramis blinked open his eyes, breathing heavily as the last of his dream left him. He started to uncurl from his cramped position on his side, but as soon as he moved to lay on his back, he winced and almost cried out.

"Easy, easy," Athos coaxed, tightening his grip on Aramis's shoulder to prevent him from moving further, "you're injured, remember?"

Aramis narrowed his eyes at Athos as he breathed through the pain, "Not possible to forget," he pushed through tense lips.

"Let me check it, while we are both down here," Athos said, waiting for a slight nod from the marksman before he pulled the blanket back to his waist. Aramis stayed on his left side but straightened out his legs to allow Athos to help him roll slightly forward. Athos gently moved Aramis's arm across his own lap, and then bent forward to raise his shirt. The five-inch gash at his side trailed down from below his rib cage, over his hip and toward his lower back. Towards the top it had been deeper, but luckily for Aramis it had missed vital organs and not gone deep enough at the end to come near his kidney. Stitching it had been a long and painful process that had left the two of them exhausted. Athos had been worried that there was not much wine to properly clean the wound, but despite the flesh being angry from the abuse of sword and then needle, it did not seem overly warm or to be seeping.

"When you are done admiring your handiwork," Aramis breathed at his side, "I'm getting cold." Athos gave him a derisive snort but pulled the shirt back down over his friend.

"It's not looking bad," Athos said succinctly, "Can you sit up?" Athos gave Aramis one hand for leverage and slipped the other beneath his left arm to help push him upright. With a small struggle, Aramis managed to swing himself up, panting with the effort to move through the pain in his side and the stiffness in his limbs from a rough night curled on cold ground.

"How are the others?" Aramis asked through clenched teeth as he let Athos help him into his doublet.

"Still asleep," Athos replied, "Porthos has been like a stone since he lay down, but D'Artagnan has been fitful. His head troubles him."

"Did you wake him?" Aramis asked, trying with just his left hand to get his doublet laced beneath his right arm. Athos pushed his hands away and gave Aramis a roll of his eyes.

"Of course, as did Porthos," he answered, securing the side laces with deft fingers, "You are not the only one who knows how to care for a head injury," Athos's tone had a hint of playfulness that only one of his brethren would be able to notice.

"How was he?" Aramis pressed, this time pushing Athos's hands away from where they had shifted to the straps on the front of his doublet, "I can buckle it, thank you," he added.

Athos gave his stubborn friend a derisive snort as he shifted to get his feet under himself to stand, "He was confused, but he recognized me. Remembered what happened when I reminded him." Athos put his hand on Aramis's left shoulder and used it for balance as he pushed his way to his feet, "We need to teach him not to fall off his horse," he added, reaching a hand out to Aramis.

Aramis took Athos's offer and let Athos help get him to his feet. Aramis stood a moment, breathing hard, forehead resting on Athos's shoulder. "We need to teach him not to fall on his head," Aramis's muffled voice quipped. Athos clapped him on the back of the neck and gave a little squeeze. After a moment Aramis raised his head with an exhaling sigh. Their eyes met and a thin smile from Aramis was met by a dip of the head by Athos. They were both alright the silent gestures said, alright but grateful for the care of the other.

Athos moved his hand to Aramis's shoulder, "I'll find us food, you wake Porthos," he said with an arch of his brow.

Aramis closed his eyes and scrunched up his face as if he smelt something distasteful, but nodded his head in acquiescence. They all knew that sometimes waking Porthos did not go well. Athos watched Aramis move carefully to the opposite side of the fire where Porthos slept on his back, head leaning on his saddle. Aramis wrapped an arm protectively around his torso and bent awkwardly to reach down and shake Porthos's shoulder, his face registering the pain of his action. Athos sighed as he turned toward the horses. The ride back to Paris would be hard on his brother, probably on all of them, as the weather turned to winter and denied them the rest they needed to heal.

Athos fished some apples, hard cheese and a round of bread from his saddle bags and returned to the fire. Porthos was on his feet, letting Aramis poke on his ribs and looking none too happy about it. The big man was the least injured of them all, but still, the bruises from being at the center of a melee were severe and Porthos was lucky his ribs were not broken. His right eye was swollen nearly shut from a dagger hilt to the face and the middle fingers on his left hand were splinted and wrapped having broken his knuckles while breaking someone else's nose. Athos had a wet cloth ready when Porthos and Aramis joined him by the fire.

"Sweet mother," Porthos hissed, pressing the cold rag to his swollen eye, "If the bastard who did this wasn't already dead, I'd kill 'im."

"You can't blame him because you didn't get out of the way," Aramis teased as he handed him an apple.

"Hard to get out of the way fightin' three of 'em at once," Porthos quipped back, "Don't recall seein' you doin' much of anything when those other six came ridin' out of the woods."

Aramis gave him a wounded look, "Not doing much? Why do you think there were six instead of eight?" Porthos gave a low chuckle and eased himself to the ground beside Athos.

"Expect we'll see more of 'em?" Porthos asked around a mouth full of apple.

Athos gave a shake of his head, "Not likely. That was a well-planned ambush and I'd wager with the best of their men. The comte is not likely to have much left to throw at us." Athos's cool face remained neutral and unconcerned, but still, his mind calculated yet again the probability of another attack.

Sixteen men in total had been lying in wait for them to intercept the dispatches from Orleans. They had broken their force in two, eight arising from the side of the road during the initial attack, and an unnoticed eight more moving in as the battle was most heated. Aramis's sharp eyes had caught sight of the reinforcements first and he'd been able to shoot two with pistols pulled from the corpses at his feet. But it had cost him in the wound to his side as one of the original group blindsided him as he was lining up the next shot. Porthos had dispatched that attacker quickly, only to be met by half of the new force swarming him like ants on sugar. The big man went down in a heap of bodies. Aramis finally got to his feet and was able to pull off one of the attackers. Porthos rose up like an angry bear, face bloody and swollen, but nothing slowed his attack of fists and feet as he flung men around like so many sacks of flour. Early on in the skirmish, D'Artagnan had been pulled from his horse, landing hard with the wind knocked out of him. Athos was able to dispatch the man who was grappling with D'Artagnan on the ground, and then stood over him protectively as he got himself to his feet. D'Artagnan was shaky, but drew his rapier and charged headlong into the fray. Athos had followed and the two swordsmen fought back to back against a circle of men until an unlucky misstep had Athos to his knees from a cut to the back of his leg. Before the attacker could drive home another thrust, his eyes bulged and he fell forward toward Athos, Aramis's dagger protruding from his back. Athos forced himself to his feet in time to see D'Artagnan take a thunderous blow to the head from a stout club. The boy dropped limply to the ground, his attacker moving in for the killing blow. Athos flung himself forward, catching the man off guard and with enough force to send them both flying to the ground. Athos make quick work of him with his main gauche, and rose to defend against another man, experience and stamina winning out against the attacker's surprisingly skilled swordplay.

Twelve men were dead by the end, and four others ran off, all wounded. They had searched the bodies and found purses full of coin and orders from the Comte de Blaise to intercept the dispatches. While the musketeers did not know the specific content of the messages they carried, they did know there had been some talk of several of the local Comtes taking issue with Louis's latest round of taxes. There was unrest in the region and the information from Louis's spies were likely to bring trouble for de Blaise and his comrades.

Wounded but able to travel, they rode the rest of the day with no pursuit and stopped only when the sun was too low for traveling wooded roads to be safe. Their night had been uneventful, other than their dealing with repercussions of their injuries. So Athos had to consider that the Comte had made one desperate attempt to intercept them and that his attention was now most likely centered on fortifying his own position or fleeing to Spain. Either way, further attack was not a logical course.

Athos was roused from his thoughts by a ragged cry. D'Artagnan was on his feet, staggering toward him, sword drawn and death in his eyes. Athos tried to spring to his feet, but the wound to his thigh made his leg uncooperative and left him off balance and down on one knee. "D'Artagnan!" he called out, stretching out a beseeching hand toward his friend as the boy raised the sword and prepared to strike.


	2. Morning II

_A/N: Thank you for the reviews and follows! That made my morning. :) You are wonderful humans. Thanks to Issai for all of her help making this actually readable. The mistakes remain all mine._

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D'Artagnan knew he was awake because he was in pain. His eyes were still scrunched closed and his head burrowed in the crook of his arm beneath the blanket, but he could not pretend anymore that he was on the edge of sleep. The dull ache was bad but manageable, but now a sharp fire was beginning to bore into his skull behind his eyes – piercing his mind like a thin stiletto.

He needed help. He needed Aramis and one of his bitter teas that dulled the pain. He needed Athos and a cold cloth over his eyes. He needed Porthos and the big man's strong grip to steady him against the pounding in his head. He knew all he had to do was call out, but despite his injuries, he still had his pride. He was at least going to make it out of his bedroll on his own.

D'Artagnan slowly pushed himself up to a sitting position, letting the blanket fall away as he cradled his head in his hands. The voices of his friends talking softly nearby were muffled whispers beneath the cold breath of the wind rustling through the trees. He turned his head toward them, forcing his half-lidded eyes to focus. The small campfire between them flickered weakly against the misty morning, providing little cheer and no warmth to combat the chill in the air. Colored leaves were scattered around the camp, glistening with frost and dampening the sounds of the forest. The stillness was unnatural, the low laugh of Porthos out of place. The sharp pain in his head was intensifying, vibrating in his skull with a shrill whining note pushing out all of his thoughts. D'Artagnan squinted against the pain, biting his lip so as not to cry out. This was wrong. He'd had head injuries before but never like this, never one that threatened to split his head in two. Fear clenched D'Artagnan's stomach and his hands started to tremble. What was happening to him?

An unexplainable urgency to rise suddenly tugged at him, prickling his skin with a sense of danger and foreboding. Using the sword by his side as a prop, he forced himself to stand on unsteady feet. His head swam and images dissolved around him. He closed his eyes lest he lose his balance completely and tried to draw long breaths past the throbbing fire in his head. As he fought to regain his equilibrium he heard it - the unmistakable whisper of steel against steel as a dozen blades were pulled from their frogs. Despite the pain, D'Artagnan forced his eyes open and scanned the campsite. There, just at the edge of the clearing, a force of bloody and battered men were silently emerging from the woods, rapiers already drawn. The mercenaries had caught up with them in the night. Aramis and Porthos were caught up in their conversation; Athos's eyes were to the fire, lost in thought. They were defenseless and unaware as the attackers raised their weapons to strike. With a cry of born of fear, rage and pain, D'Artagnan swept up his blade and charged, heading for the nearest attacker and hoping his cry was enough to alert his friends to the danger.

Athos raised his head in alarm, trying to get to his feet, but his wounded leg betrayed him and he only managed to get to a knee. The clang of swords and frantic shouts rose around him but D'Artagnan could only focus on the enemy moving swiftly toward Athos. The attacker reached him first, a hand grabbing a fist of Athos's dark hair and pulling back his head. He raised a dagger to slice across Athos's exposed neck, a mocking smiling curling on his lips as he knew D'Artagnan would be too late. Athos called out D'Artagnan's name, reaching toward him. The mercenary's blade trailed a red line across Athos's throat and Athos's face dissolved into a mask of shock and horror. Rage and terror boiled in D'Artagnan and he raised his sword above his head to strike at the attacker whose hands were bathed in Athos's blood.

As his sword fell, a large, powerful hand caught his wrist, stopping the motion of his downward stroke and using his own momentum to pull him further forward and off balance. With a cry of pain and surprise D'Artagnan fell, torso and legs tangling with Athos's body to land in a heap. D'Artagnan struck his head on the ground, his vision swimming but he had no choice but to rise. He struggled to gain purchase, but someone pulled his rapier from his hand while somehow he was rolled over onto his back. Someone straddled his chest, attempting to restrain his hands and pin his arms to the ground above his head. He fought as another pair of hands grabbed the sides of his head, preventing him from continuing to thrash. D'Artagnan breathed heavily against the throbbing ache in his skull and felt his energy flagging as he tried weakly to break free of the men pinning him down. As fatigue of the struggle began to wear at his strength, D'Artagnan was aware of the piercing, fiery pain in his head subsiding, and the noise of the battle receding. Someone was calling his name.

"D'Artagnan!" he heard again. The commanding voice familiar, demanding, urgent and completely impossible.

With great effort D'Artagnan opened his eyes to find Athos's face above him, full of worry and anger. D'Artagnan blinked at him. It couldn't be. Athos was dead. His mind was playing tricks. "No, no, no" he felt himself saying, attempting to shake his head but the hands holding his temples forbade it. He struggled again but Athos – the man sitting on him – easily kept him pinned. Confusion flooded D'Artagnan's mind. He panted in pain and fear, not sure what was happening. "You can't . . ." he stammered, "You're not. . . . you're dead! He cut your throat . . .!" D'Artagnan's voice cracked and he felt hot tears filling his eyes.

"I'm right here," Athos answered, tense but calm, "Right here. Just breathe. Calm down," Athos himself was breathing heavily but kept his gaze steady, his eyes locked on D'Artagnan's. D'Artagnan met the icy gray stare, confused but feeling the panic quelling. He took several deep breaths as Athos did the same, both of them slowly relaxing. D'Artagnan felt fear and rage dissipating, replaced with an overwhelming sense of relief. Athos was not dead. Somehow he had survived. D'Artagnan couldn't help but let a small sob pass his lips as tears leaked from his eyes and slid down the side of his face. Athos's gaze suddenly turned soft and D'Artagnan could see the worry in his eyes as he gazed down at him.

"Hey, it's alright," Athos breathed, "You're alright." D'Artagnan felt Athos release his arms, and then Athos's calloused hand was on his cheek, "I've got you. We're both fine. We're fine." The hands holding his head released him and D'Artagnan was able to give Athos a slight nod, bringing his own hand up to grip his friend's forearm and taking strength from the solid, steady body beneath his grip. D'Artagnan tried to smile at the relief of his friend being whole and well, but he couldn't reconcile it with the horror he had seen of Athos having his throat cut.

"I . . . I'm not . . ." D'Artagnan was too overwhelmed to speak, and whimpered instead against the conflicting images playing in his mind, tears still falling freely down his cheeks. Suddenly the pressure on his chest released as Athos moved off of him, rolling to sit heavily on the ground beside him. D'Artagnan kept a hold of Athos's arm, not willing to relinquish the confirmation that his friend lived. Athos shifted his arm to return the clasp, his gaze not wavering from D'Artagnan's. Someone lifted his head and something soft was placed beneath it. Cool fingers stroked the hair back from his face and someone whispered soft sounds of comfort beside him. A damp cloth gently wiped the sweat and tears from his face, and D'Artagnan found himself finally calm enough to close his eyes and give in to the comfort being offered. Someone put a blanket over him, and then a reassuring hand settled on his leg. Athos still held his arm. Supported by his friends, D'Artagnan shifted his head slightly to the left and opened his eyes again, Aramis's worried face coming into focus above him. Worry or not, the marksman still had a soft smile ready for him as he placed a cold hand again to D'Artagnan's brow.

"Back with us?" Aramis asked softly. D'Artagnan gave a slight nod, not trusting his voice yet. That earned him another smile from the marksman and another question, "Anything else hurting besides your head?" he asked.

D'Artagnan took a moment to consider. Nothing else was hurting beyond the discomfort of the cold ground. "No," he answered softly, hoping his answer sounded more steady than he felt.

"I'm going to check for any new injuries," Aramis said as he shifted his hands to gently prod at D'Artagnan's head. D'Artagnan didn't mind the gentle hands running through his hair – it was soothing and was something else to bring him back to some semblance of a normal state. D'Artagnan winced when Aramis came in contact with the bump from yesterday's skirmish and he felt Athos's grip tighten in response, as well as the hand on his leg. _Porthos_ , D'Artagnan thought, and let a thin smile slide across his face. Everyone really was alright. Apparently satisfied that there were no new wounds to be concerned with, Aramis released his hands from D'Artagnan's head but left one hand to press reassuringly on his chest while he reached for something beside him.

"I'd like you to take some of this," Aramis said holding up a smile vial, "It will help the pain and anxiousness, but I warn you, it will be bitter. I'll give you some water after to wash it down," Aramis raised an eyebrow, waiting for permission from D'Artagnan. D'Artagnan was well aware of Aramis's unpleasant concoctions but the seriousness of his tone left him unnerved. D'Artagnan felt the best course of action was to simply comply. He closed his eyes and let his head roll slightly in what he hoped was a nod. The marksman placed a hand beneath D'Artagnan's head and raised him up as he tipped a small amount of the dark, bitter liquid onto his tongue. D'Artagnan wanted to gag and spit, but almost immediately a water skin was pressed to his lips and he drank heartily, happy to wash down the foul-tasting medicine and to soothe his dry throat. Aramis gently laid his head back on the folded blanket.

"Can ya tell us what happened?" Porthos's voice was a comforting sound and he felt the warm grip tighten on his leg.

"The mercenaries . . . from yesterday", D'Artagnan said slowly, still puzzling it out himself, "They found us. They slipped out from the woods while you were talking, you didn't see," D'Artagnan started to get agitated at the memory and he felt Athos shift his grip to clasp his hand, pulling it to his chest. "I called out a warning, but Athos . . . " D'Artagnan switched his gaze back to his mentor, "You didn't see him. He was right behind you. You called my name, but I was too late," D'Artagnan felt tears rising again as he relived the memory, "He slit your throat," D'Artagnan pressed his lips together, fighting the sob that was trying to rise up in his chest.

Athos shifted closer, putting his other hand to D'Artagnan's chest. "I'm fine, D'Artagnan," Athos's voice was full of reassurance, "There was no attack. No one was hurt. We killed those men yesterday."

"No!" D'Artagnan struggled to sit up, "No! They were there! I saw them!" Athos's calm face slipped into a look of distress and confusion. He shifted his eyes from D'Artagnan to Aramis as if beseeching the marksman to provide some relief for his friend. It was Porthos, however, who answered.

"Easy, there. Easy. We believe you," Porthos said sincerely, "But that head of yours. It took a hard hit yesterday. Remember that?" D'Artagnan's gaze softened as Porthos moved his hand from his leg and reached out to him instead. D'Artagnan gripped the warm hand in his and let Porthos help pull him to a sitting position. Athos shifted his grip on his other side and drew the blanket up around D'Artagnan's shoulders. He felt Athos's hand at his back, steadying there in case he felt dizzy or weak.

"You're hurt," D'Artagnan said, acknowledging Porthos's bandaged arm.

"From yesterday," Porthos replied, "Remember? Aramis patched me up when we stopped here for the night."

"I remember," D'Artagnan said quietly, sorting through the memories of the ambush.

"And remember your head? You could barely see straight when you got off your horse," D'Artagnan had to acknowledge that too. The ride after the battle had been fuzzy, but stopping he remembered. Along with the horrible throbbing pain in his head. He had been weak and dazed still. Doing little more than take care of the horses before he had to sit down.

"Well, you know how head wounds can be," Porthos continued with a reassuring hand to his shoulder, "Nightmares, bad sleep, even hallucinations," Porthos smiled at him, "You were restless all night. I woke ya twice at least. Aramis before that. You saw those attackers, I'm sure. I've wrestled the dead. We all 'ave." Porthos's words were meant to bring comfort, but still, something was not sitting right with D'Artagnan.

"I know," he replied, "I know, but . . . but this was different. It was so intense, so real. I could hear them and see them," D'Artagnan looked around at the concerned faces of his friends, "I know I wasn't dreaming. I was awake. And I know it couldn't have been real because . . ." he trailed off, not able to say anything about having witnessed Athos being slaughtered, "So what's wrong with me?" D'Artagnan turned pleading eyes to Aramis, "What's happening?"

"Nothing that some rest in a warm bed won't fix," Aramis smiled reassuringly, "You're exhausted, in pain, your head is concussed – your mind does not know what end is what. The medicine I gave you will help, just trust us, alright?" D'Artagnan bit his lip. He wanted to say more but his friends looked so worried and Aramis's eyes were full of exhaustion behind the comforting smile he had tried to give him. D'Artagnan had to admit that his head was feeling slightly better, the pain reduced to a steady, dull throbbing and not the piercing fire that had shot through him before. His body was relaxing too, whatever Aramis had given him was settling into his limbs as well.

"Alright," D'Artagnan reluctantly agreed, not wanting to further worry his friends, "I'm sorry for scaring everyone." His reply was met with smiles and reassurances.

"You stay put, please," Aramis said, "We'll get the camp sorted and get ready to ride. I'll get you something to eat." D'Artagnan sincerely doubted his stomach could handle it, but he did not want to cause anyone more worry. His friends made their way back toward the horses, Aramis momentarily reappearing with bread and cheese.

As the pain receded and his body relaxed, D'Artagnan began to reconcile himself to the facts. The head wound was severe, and he had seen things that weren't there. He just hoped that Aramis was right and that after some rest he would get better. The thought of living through another episode like this was terrifying but if this was a permanent condition? D'Artagnan did not think he could live with that.


	3. Afternoon

_A/N: Thanks for all of the encouragement! It's about to get more weird . . . hang in there! One more chapter after this. Thanks to Issai for her kind and critical eye. The mistakes all belong to me, the musketeers don't . . ._

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Athos had tried to push their pace after the slow start to their morning, but it was clear after only a few hours of riding that none of them were up to it. Their wounds troubled them and the chill, damp air left their bodies cold, cramped and exhausted. A short stop in the afternoon had left them far from rested as their muscles protested the motion of dismounting and then rebelled as they attempted to set a small camp fire to accompany their meal. The short break became longer as D'Artagnan slipped into a fitful sleep slumped against Porthos's shoulder. Porthos seemed untroubled by the boy's presence, remaining stiff and still as he tried to force himself to take full breaths past his painful ribs.

D'Artagnan's mind had remained quiet, no sign of anymore waking dreams. The medicine Aramis had given him was potent in its undiluted state, dulling the senses along with the pain. The effects kept D'Artagnan sitting on his horse, but his body was lethargic and his mind in a fog. It was better than the pain he would be suffering without it, but none of them were comfortable with the idea of keeping D'Artagnan in that state for long. At their meal stop, Aramis had used the medicine again, but this time brewing it with tea, knowing it would be less effective, but also would cause less confusion for D'Artagnan. He had dosed himself as well, tamping down the pain in his side to a dull ache and allowing his muscles to relax slightly despite the stiffness from the cold day. They roused D'Artagnan and remounted, none of them relishing another night of open camping and hoping to make it to a village with an Inn, or at least a barn, where they could spend the night indoors.

They rode silently through the well-worn forest track, their usual conversation stilled by weariness and the mental effort to keep themselves moving forward. The late fall sun never grew strong enough to truly push the chill from Aramis's bones and he rode now with his blue cloak pulled about him trying to keep the shivering at bay. At some point Porthos had noticed his discomfort and pulled up his horse alongside him in order to drape his own cloak around Aramis's shoulders. The two men said nothing, but Aramis gave Porthos a gracious tip of the head and Porthos merely clapped him on the shoulder before dropping back to his position at rear guard.

In the late afternoon they finally emerged from the forest as the path they were following widened and then joined to a muddy road through the winter-brown fields of _Picardie._ Athos had hoped they'd make it as far as _Soissons_ that night, but it was clear they would fall far short of that. They pulled up their horses at the next crossroads, dismounting to take care of their personal needs while Athos considered which route to take.

Aramis slipped a green glass bottle from his saddle, popping the cork and taking a long swallow, the spicy _pinot noir_ sending some comfort and warmth into his chest and limbs. He moved beside Athos, who was lost in thought, and with a slight nudge to his arm to get his attention, passed the bottle to him. Athos gave him a questioning glance, and Aramis knew full well that he was wondering where the wine had come from.

"I saved one," Aramis offered with an innocent shrug.

Athos shook his head but accepted the bottle nonetheless, tipping it upwards to take a deep drink.

"You always have the remedy for what ails me," Athos said, giving Aramis one of his rare smiles as he returned the bottle.

Aramis returned the smile with a nod of his head, as his eyes scanned the edge of the road for the return of Porthos and D'Artagnan. "What do you think?" Aramis asked as he gazed into the distance.

"Night will fall soon, no sense pushing on much further. We are not up to our usual pace," Athos answered, his tone neutral. Aramis knew him well enough to know he was not angry with their slow progress, only taking it in as a fact to be cataloged and mentally adapting his plan to fit their circumstances. It was one of the things Aramis admired in him as a leader. He had no issue putting their care and comfort to the forefront of his decisions, Athos just took that on as part of his duty. Aramis felt a chill pull through his body and pulled the doubled cloaks tighter around his frame. The gesture did not go unnoticed by his friend.

"How do you fare?" Athos asked. Aramis turned to his friend to find a serious look in Athos's steely grey eyes that brooked no patience for anything less than the truth.

"The wound troubles me a little, but not overly so," Aramis answered honestly, "but it is this cold, damp day that brings me misery," Aramis blew a sigh through pursed lips and turned pleading brown eyes to Athos, "Find me a fire, a hot meal and a warm bed, _mon ami_ , and I will be forever in your debt."

Athos snorted and the corners of his mouth lifted slightly in a soft smile, "You say that enough it will take more than forever to pay it off," he quipped, reaching to take the bottle again from Aramis's hands.

Aramis watched Athos's gaze drift passed him and turned his head to see Porthos and D'Artagnan making their way back to the horses. Porthos moved stiffly, an arm wrapped around his torso as he instinctively protected his sore ribs, while his swollen face looked worse from the bruising that had settled in over the day. D'Artagnan moved slowly too, head hanging as he picked his way through the field and back to the roadway. The boy had been unusually quiet and Aramis wondered if the pain in his head was becoming overwhelming again.

"Well?" Porthos's question was just shy of a grunt.

"We'll head north," Athos replied, "It's out of our way, but _Vervins_ is close and I'm tired of my horse."

Porthos replied with what might have been "good" and took the bottle of wine from Athos, taking a long swig before handing it back. He moved to his horse without further conversation, checking the tack and clearly signaling he was done lingering here.

Aramis reached out a hand toward Athos, a gesture for the return of the wine bottle. Athos looked slightly offended, but Aramis nodded toward D'Artagnan, who was standing by his horse, motionless and gazing out across the field. Athos handed it over and Aramis, who stepped quietly up to the young Gascon's side.

"How's your head," Aramis asked, offering the young musketeer the bottle of wine.

"Hurts," D'Artagnan replied, ignoring the bottle and keeping his gaze out toward the empty fields, "Do you think that she's alright?" D'Artagnan questioned.

"Who?" Aramis asked, watching D'Artagnan's eyes track something in the distance. Aramis turned and stood shoulder to shoulder with D'Artagnan, his sharp eyes scanning the barren landscape for any sign of life.

"I don't think that's safe," D'Artagnan said, concern tingeing his voice, "She could fall."

Aramis looked again, seeing no movement short of the wind rocking the tops of the pines at the edge of the field. Aramis shifted his gaze back to D'Artagnan, noticing the lines of worry etched along his brow as he struggled to see. His body tensed and he took a step forward, raising an arm and calling out "Hey!" toward whomever it was he thought he saw.

Aramis put a hand to D'Artagnan's arm, stopping his forward motion. D'Artagnan looked back at him in surprise.

"Aramis, she needs our help," he was breathless and urgent, "She's up too high. I don't think she can get down."

"She's fine," Aramis said calmly, hoping to pull D'Artagnan's focus away from whatever he thought he was seeing, "Don't worry. Everyone's alright," he repeated, stepping closer to D'Artagnan and meeting his worried gaze with as much calm and reassurance as he can muster.

"No! She's going to fall!" D'Artagnan shouted, trying to pull himself free from Aramis's grasp, "What's wrong with you? Let me go!" D'Artagnan's shouts had brought Athos and Porthos to them, Porthos reaching out a hand to steady his young friend.

"Easy, easy," the big man said, not sure what was going on but certain that he didn't want a repeat of this morning, "Let Aramis help you."

"No! It's not that," D'Artagnan's face twisted into a visage of frustration and pain, "It's her . . . She. . . ahhh. . . " D'Artagnan trailed off as he scrunched up his face in agony, pressing the heels of his hands to his forehead and wincing in pain. He doubled over and might have fallen had not Porthos gotten a hold of him beneath his arms. Athos and Porthos shared a look of concern with Aramis, everyone uncertain about what was happening and what to do.

"D'Artagnan," Aramis's voice was authoritative but kind, attempting to grab the young musketeer's focus. He passed the wine bottle back to Athos and took up D'Artagnan's head in his hands, gently trying to raise his face so he could see his eyes. "D'Artagnan, what is it?" he probed.

"Like a knife," D'Artagnan gasped, "a red-hot knife slicing through my head." His breaths were ragged and he continued to press desperately at his forehead.

"Let me help you," Aramis said, but got no real response as the pain seemed to overwhelm his young friend. "Porthos, can you get him to the ground?" Porthos nodded, and despite the pain in his ribs, took a knee and brought D'Artagnan gently down with him, letting the boy lean into him as he sat heavily. "Athos, get me a damp cloth, and bring the water skin too," Aramis continued. Athos was off without another word, favoring his wounded leg as he made his way to his horse.

Aramis winced from the throb of his own wound as he squatted before D'Artagnan. He reached forward and pushed D'Artagnan's head back so it rested against Porthos's shoulder. Aramis slipped his hands between D'Artagnan's arms to take his head again in his hands, lacing his fingers carefully around the back of D'Artagnan's head and letting his thumbs rest on the boy's temples. Careful to avoid the contusion on his skull, Aramis applied gentle, steady pressure to D'Artagnan's head, pressing more firmly with his thumbs into his temples. D'Artagnan whimpered, but let his own hands drop, one of them finding Porthos's strong grip to hold on to against the pain.

"Sssshhh," Aramis soothed, "Try to relax. Take steady breaths." Aramis continued to firmly grip D'Artagnan's head, pressing even more deeply at his temples and making small circular motions with the pads of his thumbs. In a few minutes D'Artagnan's gasping breaths slowed down, and he began to breathe more deeply and regularly. Aramis slowly let up on his grip around D'Artagnan's skull, finally letting one hand slip behind the boy's head to gently cup the back of his skull while reaching for the damp cloth Athos had brought to him.

"Keep your eyes closed," Aramis told D'Artagnan, and then placed the folded cloth over his eyes, lightly pressing his hand over it. D'Artagnan let out a long, shuddering sigh and Aramis felt the weight of his head fall more firmly into his supporting hand. Aramis held that position for a few minutes until the ache in his side became unbearable.

"Athos," Aramis breathed, nodding toward the now still Gascon. Athos understood immediately, squatting down beside Aramis and helping him to gently lay D'Artagnan's head against Porthos's shoulder. Porthos let go of D'Artagnan's hand and snaked up his arm to take the cloth and keep it pressed firmly against D'artagnan's forehead. As soon as he knew D'Artagnan was secure, Aramis fell back with a wince of pain, wrapping an arm protectively around his side and rolling down onto his back. Athos was there to soften his landing and he gave his brother a moment to catch his breath against the pain.

"I should look at that," Athos told him, still maintaining a tight, supportive grip on the marksman's arm.

"Merciful God no, not right now," Aramis panted, "I'm freezing enough as it is." With a hand from Athos, Aramis struggled to a sitting position and managed to slip his hand under his shirt and doublet to feel the bandage. "The bandage is dry, no stitches pulled," he pronounced, working his hand back out from under his clothes. "It'll be fine enough until we get somewhere warm and dry."

"D'Artagnan, are you alright?" Athos prodded, reluctantly shifting his attention from the wounded marksman.

"Yes, right enough," D'Artagnan breathed, reaching up to take the cloth from beneath Porthos's restraining hand. Porthos released it and D'Artagnan wiped it over his face before forcing his eyes half open to glance up at Athos. "My head is pounding, but it's not as bad as before," he cast his gaze to Aramis, "Thank you."

"No worries, _mon ami,"_ Aramis smiled at him, "Just a trick I picked up to better handle Athos on his more miserable mornings." Athos glared at him, but the marksman could see the smile behind his friend's eyes.

"Are you up to riding," Athos asked the boy.

"I can manage," D'Artagnan replied, "What about Aramis?"

"I could lose both legs and still be able to sit my horse," the marksman supplied with a cocky smile.

"Let's not put that to the test," Athos stated, pushing himself up to his knees and then using his good leg to get the rest of the way up. "Mount up. We'll find someplace warmer to spend the night," he said, offering Aramis a hand to his feet. Aramis gratefully took it, and then the two of them guided first D'Artagnan, then Porthos back to a standing position.

"Go on with ya," Porthos said, shooing them toward the horses, "The state we're in, we'd lose a battle to a goat boy if he found us out here." The reference to the goat herder made D'Artagnan stop in his tracks and turn back.

"The girl!" he exclaimed, searching frantically across the landscape, a hand over his eyes to shade them from the lowering sun. Athos glanced back at Aramis, a question in his face. Aramis just gave him a shake of the head, telling him there was no girl.

"I can't see her," D'Artagnan said, worry creasing his face.

"She must have run home," Athos said succinctly, "Come. As Porthos so eloquently pointed out, we are quite vulnerable at the moment."

D'Artagnan paused another moment, then shrugged his shoulders and made his way back to his horse. Aramis was waiting with more of the foul medicine, this time swirled into the last of the wine. D'Artagnan drank it without question and then Porthos was there to give him and Athos both a leg up, before hauling himself up into his own saddle. They set off at a slow walk again, this time following Athos on the northern track toward the sleepy village of _Vervins_.

The orange ball of the sun was settling into the arms of the distant mountains when the four weary riders made their way into _Vervins._ It was a quiet town but large enough for an Inn, a welcome sight to Aramis who had taken to shivering again once he was back on his horse. The cold and damp had settled in his bones. He considered he could be getting sick, or worse, that his wound was infected. But he didn't feel fevered. His side ached with a hot, dull throb but that was hardly unusual given the strain he had put on his body. He found the cold far more overwhelming. He just wanted to be warm again.

They pulled up rein outside of the modest tavern, each sitting a moment to figure out how best to get off their horses. With groans and winces they all made it to the ground. Athos passed his reins to Porthos and staggered inside to arrange for lodgings for themselves and the horses. Aramis noted his limp was more pronounced. His stoic friend of course would say nothing, but Aramis knew his leg must be troubling him after the day's long ride.

Wearily they started removing their weapons and gear from the animals. Athos reemerged from the Inn, followed by a teenage boy who began to help with the horses. Aramis spared a glance to D'Artagnan who was leaning heavily against one of the hitching posts, fingers pressed to the bridge of his nose. Aramis had been concerned that another crippling headache would overcome the young musketeer and it looked like one was blooming. Worry spread across the marksman's face as he considered D'Artagnan's symptoms. Blows to the head were tricky, but this blinding pain and the waking dreams were nothing any of them had experienced before. But they all knew of soldiers who had never been the same after a severe head wound. Some forgot who they were, or their personalities turned to something dark and unrecognizable, and some just lost their wits and ended their days in a befuddled cloud. There was little more Aramis knew to do for a head injury than what he had already tried and experience suggested few physicians would have any better ideas either.

"Aramis," Porthos rumbled beside him, startling him from his dark thoughts, "get yourself and D'Artagnan inside and warmed up. It's makin' me colder just looking at you."

Before Aramis could respond, a strangled cry pulled everyone's attention to D'Artagnan. He was leaning against the hitching post, eyes wide and staring out into the night, one arm outstretched as if reaching for something just outside his grasp. Even in the rapidly dwindling light, Aramis could see D'Artagnan's face was racked with pain, as tears tracked down his cheeks.

"Father!" D'Artagnan cried out, the sound more of a heart-wrenching sob that just a mere word as it echoed through the empty streets. The musketeers rushed to D'Artagnan's side as the boy collapsed to his knees crying out again and reaching to something only he could see.

Athos was at his side first, skittering down beside his protégé with a painful grunt.

"D'Artagnan! D'Artagnan, stop it!" Athos had him by the shoulders, grasping him tightly and holding him upright, "There is nothing there, D'Artagnan. Nothing is there." Athos's voice was stern and commanding, the voice of a leader who expected to be obeyed.

D'Artagnan whimpered and pushed ineffectively at Athos's arms, trying to free himself from the swordsman's grip, "It's my father," D'Artagnan called out in desperation, "He's right there," D'Artagnan's eyes all but begged Athos to let him go, "He's right there, Athos," he pleaded, "Let me go!"

"Your father is dead!" Athos's voice was loud and angry, "He can't be there, D'Artagnan. He's dead! Your mind is playing tricks on you. Stop this!" Athos was practically shaking the boy and D'Artagnan cried out and drew his head down into his hands in obvious pain.

"Enough Athos, enough!" Aramis's voice was hard with worry, but Athos glared up at him. Aramis expected to see rage in his eyes, but instead he saw fear - Athos was terrified of what was happening to D'Artagnan. Aramis painfully knelt beside his friend, softening his voice and putting a hand to Athos's shoulder, "You are hurting him. Please," he pleaded, "Stop."

Athos locked eyes with Aramis, but kept his iron grip on D'Artagnan who was all but collapsed and in obvious agony. It was Porthos who intervened then, leaning down to place his hands on Athos's shoulders, whispering in Athos's ear.

"Leave him go," Porthos said softly, "Give him to Aramis," he patted Athos on the back, encouraging him, "C'mon Athos," his quiet voice demanded, "Let 'im go."

Athos suddenly deflated before their eyes, loosening his grip on D'Artagnan who slid to the ground, curling in on himself as he pressed his hands against his head. Athos let Porthos help him stand and the big man placed an arm around his shoulders and a hand around his arm. Aramis reached out to gently grip D'Artagnan by the shoulder and shared a look with Porthos - _I've got this one, you take care of that one_ they silently communicated. Porthos led Athos back toward the stables, while Aramis hunched over D'Artagnan.

"D'Artagnan, can you hear me?" He asked. The boy gave him no response, just lay curled on his side his head cradled in his own hands, "Alright," Aramis soothed, keeping ahold of D'Artagnan in case either his words or his physical presence was somehow registering, "It's alright. I've got you. You'll be fine."

Aramis knew he needed help to get D'Artagnan to his feet, and if he was being honest, he wasn't sure he could get himself up at this point with the way that the wound on his side was aching. Luckily the innkeeper had made his way to the threshold when the shouting started and the stable boy was still standing beside Aramis's mount, his mouth slack at the scene he had just witnessed. Help was at hand.


	4. All Hallows Eve

D'Artagnan had been only semi-conscious when the innkeeper and the stable boy carried him up to their room. Without Athos or Porthos there to help, it took everything Aramis had left in him to get D'Artagnan undressed and settled. It was heartbreaking in his waking moments when D'Artagnan would talk to his father, insisting he was sitting on the edge of the bed while Aramis worked to get a fire going and waited for the innkeeper to bring up hot water and brandy. Eventually the pain in D'Artagnan's head overwhelmed him and Aramis again used his trick of massage until the potent tincture of valerian root could take effect. By the time the young musketeer was asleep, Aramis was spent.

He managed to get his boots and doublet off, but that was the end of his strength. He knew he should check his own wound, but his body with shaking now with chills and exhaustion. It was fever, he knew, but Aramis had little energy left for anything other than to finish off the last of the valerian tea he had brewed for D'Artagnan and curl up under a blanket in the other bed. Athos and Porthos would come up at any moment. They would get him sorted. He knew his brothers would be angry with him for not taking better care of himself, but he knew he would be forgiven given how poorly he fared. With thoughts of his brothers creating an aura of safety and protection, Aramis slipped quickly into a deep sleep, D'Artagnan's rising restlessness going unnoticed.

* * *

Athos put down his empty cup, staring into the bottom as if it might reveal something beyond his need to numb his pain. Finding nothing to sustain him, he reached across the table for the half-full bottle and found it immobilized by Porthos's large hand. Athos cocked his head and gave Porthos one of his trademark glares only to be met with a stoic stare to rival his own.

"Ready to talk yet?" the big man asked quietly.

"No," Athos said, releasing his hand from the bottle and offering up the empty cup. Porthos took it from him and filled the glass, but instead of passing it to Athos, he placed it between them.

"If you choose that," Porthos said, nodding toward the cup, "plan on sleeping in the barn. I'm about done here."

Athos sighed, raking a hand through his hair. Despite the wine, he was still angry, still scared, still feeling something when all he wanted to do was feel nothing. But Porthos offered no choices and would make no compromises. While the first bottle had been about comfort, there was no way he would be allowed to dissolve into oblivion this night.

"Alright," Athos said quietly, leaning forward and placing his forearms on the table, "I'm sorry."

"Well that's a start," Porthos said with a small satisfied smile, "But I'm not the one that needs the apology."

"I know," Athos looked down, shame burning his cheeks. He was grateful for the shadows offered by the flickering candlelight that his brother did not have to see his discomfiture. "I am not angry at D'Artagnan." Porthos nodded, encouraging him to go on, "I am worried about him. I am watching a good soldier, a friend . . . my brother . . . " his voice became gruff with emotion, ". . . my brother, lose himself into a world of phantasms and delusions. I am scared, Porthos," Athos said, looking up to his friend, eyes full of despair, "and angry at myself. Angry at how I feel, about what I can't do, about how we can't fix this." Athos paused, struggling to gain control over his emotions, "I am lost, my friend," he added, his voice cracking, " . . .lost."

Porthos reached a hand across the table and grasped Athos around the wrist. He kept his gaze steady as he searched for the right words. "We all love 'im, Athos," Porthos said, voice thick with emotion, "pushing him away now isn't going to make any of this less painful. Whatever is going to happen, you're going to feel it. You might as well accept it now."

Athos reached his other hand across the table and put it over Porthos's hand holding his wrist. They sat in silence, drawing strength and comfort from the solidarity of their brotherhood. Athos felt something inside himself release, as if he had been holding his breath all day and now suddenly could breathe freely again.

"Thank you," he said with a soft smile. Porthos returned the gesture with a dip of his head. "I have to remember we are never in this alone."

"No friend, we are not," Porthos replied with a smile. He released Athos's hands, and picked up the bottle, pouring himself a drink and then pushing Athos's cup back to him across the table. "To D'Artagnan," he said, raising his glass.

"D'Artagnan," Athos intoned, lifting his glass as well in a toast to their brother's health.

* * *

D'Artagnan was pushed awake by the thrumming in his head. The sharp, searing pain was intensifying, developing into an almost unbearable agony as it burrowed into the very center of his mind. He could hear it, like thin whine, echoing in his mind. He tried to keep his eyes closed, to press his head deeply into the soft pillow beneath him, but the pain was unrelenting. He felt compelled, driven to open his eyes as surely as if someone commanded it.

The room was lit by the flicker of guttering candles, but before him, clear as daylight was a beautiful woman. Dark hair cascaded down her shoulders, framing a heart-shaped face with dark brown eyes. She wore a white gown that almost shined in the candlelight, an unusual cross dangling from a pale blue ribbon around her neck. Her face seemed familiar, but the cruel pain in his head refused to let him think.

"Who are you?" he asked between gasping breaths.

"Cut him," her voice was too loud in his head, but the words were desperate and plaintive, "You must cut him," she said again, infinite sadness filling her words.

Confused, D'Artagnan's eyes cast about the room, his eyes finally settling on a figure huddled in the other bed. Who was there? D'Artagnan squeezed his eyes shut, trying to think, trying to remember.

"Get up." her tone changed. Her voice was full of terror and threat. D'Artagnan felt as if it came from inside his head. The pain intensified and he curled into a ball, fighting with her overwhelming presence.

"Get up!" she commanded again, her voice echoing in the small room. He didn't want to do it, didn't want to listen, but D'Artagnan felt as if he was being split in two by the soul-piercing fire of her voice. He peered up at her and she glided toward him, eyes full of lightning and skin pale as snow. She stretched out her hand and placed it on D'Artagnan's head. Instantly he felt the fire in his brain blossom to consume his body. He writhed on the bed, whimpering against the pain coursing through him.

"Get up!" she intoned again, her words filling his brain, his heart, his very soul. It was unbearable. Shaking, D'Artagnan pushed himself up off the bed, somehow drawing himself to stand.

"The blade," she breathed, gesturing to his main gauche glistening on the table. He wanted to resist her, but it was as if his will had been chained the moment she touched him. Fighting his own limbs, fear grew in his heart as his body was compelled to take up the weapon.

The long dagger was edged in an eerie blue light, unnatural and born somehow from the demon before him. He stared at it in terror, afraid of its power and what she was forcing him to do.

"Cut him," she breathed again, the words rattling in his mind as the pain flared through his body. He felt he was an instrument of fire, sent to purge an evil from the world with the burning blade in his hand. He lost his resistance as his mind was hollowed out by the force of her will. She stood over the figure curled on the bed, blue fire dancing now from her fingertips and her lightning eyes blazing. She was beautiful and terrifying and he knew he was her creature.

He pulled back the blankets from the bed and looked down at the slender form lying still beneath his blade.

"Cut him," she bade one more time, the urgency in her voice again edging on desperation. Her sorrow was too much. Without further thought he plunged the knife into the man's still form.

* * *

The blood curdling scream echoed throughout the Inn, as if death himself had come to claim their souls this All Hallows Eve. Athos dropped the glass from his hand and it shattered on the table. Porthos jumped up, knocking over the tavern bench with a loud crash. The barmaid let out a horrified gasp as a second scream sounded from above. The two musketeers were a blur of motion, drawing their blades and storming up the stairs. Their hearts were pounding in their chests as they flung open the door to the room D'Artagnan shared with Aramis.

D'Artagnan stood stiffly by the bed nearest the window, his hands bathed in blood up to his wrists, a knife held limply in his right hand. He looked dazed and lost as he stared down at the form in the bed. They couldn't see his face, but they knew - with all that was holy in their hearts - that it was Aramis bleeding through the bedclothes.

Athos and Porthos dropped their blades and pushed over furniture in their rush to get to their comrades. Porthos kneeled before Aramis, searching for the wound and a way to stop the bleeding. Athos stopped before D'Artagnan, horror and shock at his protege consuming his ability for rational thought.

"What have you done," he breathed, searching D'Artagnan's dead eyes for some sign he could recognize as his brother.

"I cut him," D'Artagnan said softly, slowly extending his bloody hand to Athos and offering him the blade, "I cut him," he repeated. Athos looked down at the dagger, bathed in the blood of one of his brothers, and choked back a sob.

"Why?" he asked, as he finally found the courage to take the offending object from D'Artagnan's hand.

"She made me," he said simply, looking with despair at the head of the bed.

"Who, D'Artagnan?" Athos felt his eyes filling with tears, "Who is here that would make you do this?"

"Her," D'Artagnan replied, pointing to where Aramis lay, "She is holding him so tenderly now, whispering in his ear" he said, his voice full of emotion, "I saved him. She told me. I saved him," his voice cracked as he turned to face Athos again. Athos felt too many words, too many thoughts swirling in his mind. . Before Athos could form another coherent thought, D'Artagnan's eyes rolled back in his head and his body went limp. Acting simply on instinct, Athos caught him. Fighting tears, he lowered his brother to the floor, sorrow seeping from the crevices of his mind. The pain rising up in Athos's heart was cold and familiar - the pain he had felt when he held Thomas's dead body in his arms.

"Athos!" Porthos's urgent call broke the spell of shock and despair that had settled over him. Athos swiftly but gently released D'Artagnan from his grasp, and shifted to kneel beside Porthos.

"Look at this," he said, lifting up the blood-soaked bedclothes he had been using to staunch the wound. The slice along Aramis's side was clean and precise. The blade had followed the line of the previous wound, neatly slicing through the stitches Athos had placed the day before. There was an odor to the wound, the foul smell of a festering infection. Had the wound not been reopened, the fresh blood flow helping to clear the puss from the body, Aramis surely would have died. Athos's mind reeled. D'Artagnan hadn't tried to kill his brother, he had saved him.

"Get the brandy, the bandages and Aramis's sewing kit," Porthos said through tight lips as he pressed the cloth back to Aramis's side. He placed his other hand on Aramis's chest, over his heart. "Stay with us, brother," he whispered as Athos gathered the things they needed to save his life.

* * *

He heard his name. It was the one thing he knew. The one word he recognized in a sea of empty black. It was tugging at him like a rope to boat, pulling him back to shore. He heard it again and struggled to respond, thinking perhaps he had said something, had moved, had sat up, but knowing he had yet to even open his eyes. It seemed impossible. Too hard.

"D'Artagnan" he heard softly again. The voice was tender and pained, full of authority and concern.

"D'Artagnan," it wouldn't let him go.

His eyes fluttered open, lifting the cobwebs of sleep from his foggy mind. He looked up to see his mentor's face, worn with lines of worry hovering over him. He looked sad and happy at the same time.

"Athos," D'Artagnan tried to say with a smile, but it came out as a croak from a throat unused to speaking.

"Here," Athos said, raising him up and holding a cup of water to his lips. D'Artagnan drank, able to raise his hands and hold the cup steady himself. He finished with a grateful smile, but struggled to sit up after Athos released him. Athos helped him to lean forward, then pushed up the pillows behind his back so that he could recline comfortably and with support.

"How do you feel?" Athos asked softly.

D'Artagnan paused, unable to answer that at first. He was comfortable, the bed was soft. He wasn't thirsty or cold. He had no fever, and no pain in his body. He almost felt like he was floating, but a slight ache in his head reminded him he was very much on this earth.

"I'm better, I think," D'Artagnan said, almost surprised, "Was I sick?"

"You don't remember?" Athos asked gently, a look of surprise and worry creasing his brow.

D'Artagnan puzzled this. He was in a bed, but wasn't sure how he had gotten there. He remembered his head hurting terribly, and dreams, nightmares that walked with him. They had been wounded, and Athos attacked and killed. But no, Athos was here. He threaded through a chain of disconnected, impossible thoughts and finally found one horrifying memory . . .

"Aramis!" he called out, trying to push himself up out of the bed.

"Here, D'Artagnan," his friend's soft voice sounded from across the room. Athos sat further back, and Aramis appeared in his line of sight, also propped up by pillows, with Porthos by his side.

"I stabbed you!" D'Artagnan said, horrified at his own actions, "I tried to kill you."

"No, D'Artagnan, you saved him," Porthos rumbled, his voice full of affection, "Somehow you knew, that his wound was festering. You sliced so precisely that all you did was release the stitches so that the blood could flow and draw out the infection. It was a miracle."

D'Artagnan considered this. He closed his eyes, trying to focus on the memories from the past night. He searched his mind, and then remembered her.

"It wasn't me," he said, eyes wide with fascination, "it was her."

"Who?" Athos asked, "You mentioned a woman that night. Who was she?"

"I don't know," D'Artagnan said, "I don't think she was real. She was too beautiful. She had long dark hair and deep brown eyes. She had a maltese cross on a blue ribbon around her neck. She looked familiar . . . like someone I had met before." D'Artagnan looked over at Aramis, considered his face, his eyes. "You," he said, "She looked like you Aramis."

Aramis raised a brow, and gave a gentle laugh, "Nice that even in your delusions you have good taste."

"She sat with you, your head in her lap," D'Artagnan voiced the memories as they came to him, "She was so worried, she was crying. She called you something . . . " D'Artagnan paused, closing his eyes to think, to capture the perfect words, "Mi pequeño cachorro. That's what she said. Mi pequeño cachorro."

Aramis let out an audible gasp, his face going pale, and his hand gripping his heart. "That cannot be," he breathed.

"Aramis, what?" Porthos said with concern, reaching to place his hand over Aramis's.

"My mother," Aramis breathed, "My mother called me that. Mi pequeño cachorro - my little cub." Aramis shook his head as if he was hearing something that could not be there. "She died when I was a boy D'Artagnan. No one has called me that since. No one, no one, knows those words."

Porthos looked over at D'Artagnan, a light dawning in his eyes, "Those were not delusions you saw, those were spirits, D'Artagnan. They walked with you. You are blessed my friend."

The men sat there in silence, trying to comprehend what they knew was impossible. Angel or demon, spirit or delusion, it didn't matter for the heart had seen what the eye could not and had given them back their brother.

-FIN-


End file.
